


World on Fire

by Mazarin221b



Series: Spider to the Fly [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Comeplay, D/s relationship, Exhibitionism, How many other kinks can I fit on this list?, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Public Nudity, Public Sex, public everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-21
Updated: 2011-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-27 17:30:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/298280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mazarin221b/pseuds/Mazarin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written just for my beta, Carolyn Claire, a little piece of the "Spider to the Fly" universe, and she's letting me share with everyone. This little thing does not need to be read in order with any other part of the series (Come Into My Parlor, Dark of the Alley, Come Undone, and Whatever You Ask For), but knowledge of their relationship would inform it a little bit.</p>
<p><i>“I want to play a little game,” he says, and the fluttery anticipation blooms to white-hot arousal in an instant.</i> John knows how to counter Sherlock's boredom - a little bit of risk, a little mental challenge, and a lot of self-discipline.</p>
            </blockquote>





	World on Fire

Sherlock hasn’t had a case in weeks, years if you ask him, so long it seems that he is ready to watch the world burn, turn itself inside out, all for the sake of having something interesting to look at. Irritation had built into frustration and then outright petulance until yesterday, in desperation, John tied him to the bed and gave him something to focus on. 

John’s new suede flogger really is quite lovely _._

But even that hadn’t been enough to calm his mind, bring him clarity. So he’s hoping that this little trip to Bart’s means a surprise—a new case, or even a cold case. John is pretty good at persuading the Yard to let him have a go at those.  But instead of going down to the morgue, John is pulling him up the stairs, all the way to the top floor where the classrooms are.

John leading Sherlock by the hand through the halls at St Bart’s is odd enough, as it goes. They don’t touch in public, much. Not that they’re embarrassed about their lives – no, Sherlock’s perfectly content to let everyone know that he belongs to John, and to John alone. But the feel of John’s skin against his is still so electric, so arousing, that his brain gets a little foggy if John should happen to touch his hand, or his neck. Occasionally he’ll lose concentration to the point of complete inattention, his brain drifting into sweat-inducing  scenarios completely inappropriate for whatever situation they find themselves in. It’s happened before, and when John had removed his hand from the back of Sherlock’s neck, startling him back to reality, John had simply smiled, a molasses-slow, lascivious smile that meant he knew exactly what Sherlock had been thinking about.

Sherlock is thinking those thoughts now, a sort of tingling anticipation starting in his gut as he realizes just how quiet things are up here on a Friday afternoon. Not completely deserted—a few people have passed them, shoes clacking against the linoleum—but very empty compared to what it obviously is like during the earlier parts of the day.

John stops at a door, turns the knob. It swings open gently on quiet hinges, the room beyond dim in the late autumn dusk. John doesn’t turn on the lights, but reaches for Sherlock’s coat, unbuttons and slides it from his shoulders.

“I want to play a little game,” he says, and the fluttery anticipation blooms to white-hot arousal in an instant. John walks behind him, runs a finger down his spine. “You’re always so eager to be admired, aren’t you? Always wanting the spotlight. Let’s see how far that goes, shall we?” John trails his hand along Sherlock’s waist as he completes his circuit.

“I …” Sherlock starts, then closes his mouth when he sees John’s raised eyebrow. They’d played just yesterday but there was little challenge in it, no requirement for true mental discipline. But what it sounds like John has planned lights his senses, turns him on, trips the switch for _interesting_ and _sexy_ and _fun_ all at once. There’s only one answer he knows he can give to this scenario, and he lets it out on a breathy sigh.

“Yes, John.”

John grins, licks his lip. “Then strip for me, gorgeous.”

Sherlock does, one eye on the door, which John never did lock. The classroom is shadowy but not dark, full of long tables and chairs but little else. There’s a window in the door and nowhere to hide, and the full paper bin hasn’t yet been emptied, nor the floor swept. The cleaning crew hasn’t made it this far, then, and the ticking of the wall clock becomes ominously loud.

He undresses efficiently, quickly, not wanting to waste whatever time they might have, and when he finally drops his underwear in the pile of his other clothes on the cold linoleum floor, John grasps his hips and pulls him close.

“Into your waiting position, on that table there,” he whispers against Sherlock’s lips, then kisses him softly. “And be quick about it.”

Sherlock nimbly climbs onto the table, kneels with his bum resting on his heels and his hands splayed just so over his thighs. His cock is hard, straining forward, swaying in the cool air. The room is getting darker now, and he can still just make out John’s expression as he waits ten feet away.

“So lovely,” John says, and Sherlock stares at John’s hand trailing down over the zip of his jeans. Sherlock hadn’t been told to drop his chin to his chest, and he’s certainly not going to offer. He wants to _see._ “I’d never in a million years have thought I’d have someone as sexy as you, you know? Aren’t I so lucky?” John unbuttons and pulls down his zip, freeing his cock. He strokes it a couple of times, Sherlock avidly watching the fullness of the head as it pushes through the circle of John’s own hand.  

“I think I’m the lucky one,” Sherlock says, and his fingers twitch on his thigh. He knows better than to move until he’s given permission and the temporary relief of his hand on his cock wouldn’t be worth the appearance of the leather strap he’s sure John has hidden in his coat pocket.

“Oh, that wasn’t luck, was it?” John says, coming closer to the table. “You wanted me. You made sure I saw all those months ago, that I thought about you this way. Didn’t you?”

Sherlock’s mesmerized by John’s hand still moving, stroking, and he can’t stop watching the tiny reflected gleam from the wet tip of John’s cock.  He realizes just as John’s hand connects with the side of his thigh that he hasn’t answered the question. Heat blooms from the impact, radiating through his body and straight up his spine. “Yes, John,” he says, breathless, beginning to ache.

“That’s better,” John says and slides his hand over the heated skin in soothing circles. “But I got the best part. I get you, like this. Just for me. Only for me.” John kisses Sherlock’s chest, his biceps, his stomach, continues to pull on his own cock but refuses to touch Sherlock’s. The tension is making Sherlock tremble, the throbbing in his balls becoming almost painful.

“Please,” he whimpers, and his nails dig into his skin.

“No, my love. Watch me. Watch what you do to me when you kneel so nicely.”

Sherlock shudders, stares. There’s nothing to do _but_ watch, nothing else uncovered but John’s cock where it juts between the open flies of his jeans. Sherlock bites his lip so hard he’s sure it will bruise, using the pain to keep himself focused on John, on his desire for obedience, on understanding.  The world goes hot then cold and his vision narrows, the edges dark and fuzzy. The only thing in clear, sharp focus is John’s hand sliding over his smooth, flushed cock , the only sound the huff of John’s breath through clenched teeth and the quiet susurrus of skin on skin.

“Christ, so close,” John says, and his hand speeds up at the same time he leans forward, forehead against Sherlock’s sternum, the other hand braced against Sherlock’s thigh. They’re lost in each other, the closeness of their breath on each other’s skin a comfort. Sherlock’s just starting to relax when his ears pick up the click of high heels in the hall and he freezes in place. John stops as well, leaning against Sherlock and holding completely still, shifting slightly to the side to shield Sherlock from the window. 

The heels continue to click closer, sending Sherlock’s heart into overdrive. He doesn’t care if someone sees him naked, no, but the idea that someone would see him in this position, kneeling  for John’s pleasure, makes him flush. He belongs to John, their relationship has been the brightest star to ever shine in his dark sky, and he _wants_ someone to see. Wants them to know. Wants them to envy him, to want what he has. 

He looks over the top of John’s head toward the little window in the door, waits, waits, sees the tall blonde click past. Four steps past the shoes falter in their gait and Sherlock’s stomach swoops to his feet until the steps start up again.

The relief has Sherlock breathing so hard he’s gasping, pulling down great lungfuls of air. John’s scent is everywhere, the smell of his shampoo, his heated skin, is right under Sherlock’s nose.

John giggles, his cock still hard despite the scare. “A bit close, that. All right?”

Sherlock nods. The fight to keep his hands where they’re supposed to be is about to conquer him, his senses overwhelmed and he no longer cares about the unlocked door and precarious position they’d certainly be in if someone really had walked in. He can’t do anything other than surrender as far as closing his eyes.

John clutches him closer until Sherlock can feel the rhythmic motion of John’s hand against his stomach. “Fuck, open your eyes. I told you to _watch_ ,” John snaps.

Sherlock forces his eyes open, looks down between their bodies just as John’s head snaps back and he groans, his semen painting Sherlock’s stomach and cock, sliding down his thighs.

Neither speaks for a moment, John breathing hard against Sherlock’s chest and Sherlock quivering from the combined stress of pent up arousal and kneeling on the hard table for so long. John eventually pulls back, looks up at Sherlock with adoring eyes, kisses him gently and retrieves a handkerchief from his pocket.  Sherlock watches, incredulous, as John cleans up his hands.

“What -?” he starts, but John looks up at him, catches his eye.

“No,” he says. “Get down, put your clothes on.”

“But, I,-“

“Are you arguing with me? You might want to reassess.”

Sherlock stops, thinks. His stomach is coiled tight, his brain humming, his body poised, wound like a spring. He feels— light. Aroused, primed. John’s semen is cooling, drying across his skin, tickling him as he moves and sending sparks skittering down his spine.

John smiles. “That’s it, love. One quick visit to the morgue and then we’re home. I have another special present ready when we get there.” He squeezes Sherlock’s hip, runs a teasing finger up Sherlock’s cock, making Sherlock gasp aloud.

“Cruel.”

“I am not, and you know it. Get dressed.”

Sherlock sighs deep, climbs down from the table, pulls on underwear and trousers and shirt and socks and shoes. It’s a bit of a struggle to hide the erection he can’t seem to will away, but John will sort it.

And as he tucks his infinity necklace behind the collar of his shirt, he knows that his John always will.

 

_Title from Chris Issak, Wicked Game_

 

 


End file.
